That is so gross.

Lixi, did you make the tail into a keyring?

There's more to the story but nobody in their right mind wants to hear it.

I was having a dream that someone was attempting to suffocate me with a really disgusting-smelling pillow. I awoke to find my roommate's cat sitting on my face. This is the only time in my life that I have contemplated doing horrible things to a cat; yes, they're cute, but their little kitty anuses do not belong on my face.

He sent me flowers the next day, so if you ever want flowers, just let somebody blow chunks all over your party threads.

Christmas Eve, and the day hadn't been going too well. Plans had entirely failed to come together. I went on a determined one-man pub crawl and after risking a couple of the roughest pubs in town (where I happened to bump into a load of people I was at primary school with) I wound up in a pub that turned out to be run by the parents of a friend of my sister.

After being beaten at pool a few times by an 8 year old (the day just wasn't getting any better) I settled down at the bar for a good old fashioned under-age drinking binge, alternating between lager and cider for maximum effect. By 10pm I was royally slaughtered, had run out of cash, and was working steadily at building up the world's most impressive bar tab for someone not old enough to be building up a bar tab in the first place. The DJ was getting quite pissed off with my repeated requests for "a bit of Oasis, man" and all seemed to agree it was time for me to go home. Except I couldn't walk - someone appeared to have amputated my legs and put them in a box for safe keeping. The only thing for it was to call a cab and the barman to drag me out to it, accompany me home and do a doorstep handover to my mum (!) whi by all accounts was pissing herself laughing at my predicament. All would have gone smoothly if I hadn't vomited all over said barman as he escorted me from the pub. Once home, I was halfway through being dragged up the stairs when I turned and said, apparently quite clearly, "I've said it before, I'll say it again - I am never doing this again. Until the next time" and then pretty much passed out again. Then comes the pinnacle of the night - the nocturnal trip to the loo mentioned above. The carpet was rather, er, damp, around the hifi by morning, but I had remembered to put the seat down (being brought up in a house full of females does this to you - I now rebel on principle and leave the seat up even when visiting female friends! ha! low-grade rebellion!)

Christmas Day was quite a bad one - all I could eat was roast chicken flavour golden wonder crisps and the thought of more drink was unbearable. All went well after that until the night before the first day of school term - my bag had been laying next to my hifi on the floor and when I opened it to check which books were in it I found my maths textbook had changed colour and smelled like a damp cave. Whatever was in my pee that night had filtered through the book from the back cover inwards like the world's most perverse chromatography experiment, leaving a marvellous concentric pattern of colours through the pages. I can't remember what on earth I said to explain the damage when I gave the book back a year or so later, but I somehow doubt it was the truth. There ya go - the full tale. Sadly no vomit, pumpkin innards or mouse guts to be seen. Wish you hadn't asked now?

The next morning, I woke up feeling pretty ropey, as you do, still with this peculiar taste in my mouth. Slowly and horrifically, I pieced the events of the night together, and flight of stairs or no flight of stairs, I needed to be in the toilet pretty fucking quickly...

I guess what must have happened is that the party the night before was so smoky that I passive smoked a good deal of nicotine, which was then expelled in my urine. It's strange that I found the faggy taste far more disgusting than the fact I'd drunk my own urine. For months afterwards the mere thought made my stomach spasm.

Waking up in a friend's spare room to find her cat had deposited a half-eaten mouse in my shoe. I was wearing socks, but still. I have a total horror of standing on bad things, just watching someone else stand on a HUGE slug freaked me out. My number one most disgusting thing was treading on a CHEESY WOTSIT in the swimming pool changing rooms, BARE FEET. I remember this so clearly I can sometimes almost feel the squish-crunch of DISGUSTING SMELLING ORANGE RECONSITUTED WHEAT PRODUCT again my sole. -- Ellie (ellieplanchet@hotmail.com), November 08, 2001.

As disgusting as this will sound, this kind of stuff constitutes my pornography. You should have come to me - I would have eaten those wotsits from your bare feet. If indeed "Ellie" makes you a woman...

About a year or two ago I spent an entire evening in a local pub with lots of friends. To give my stomach something of a solid lining before binging on booze (I thought I was being sensible at the time) I decided to have a large cheeseburger and chips.

Anyway evening continued and when it came to kicking out time I had consumed 4/5 pints of Stella and as many vodka shots.

I remember being poured from my friends car and then going to my bedroom, where I thought I'd be clever and finish off half a bottle of vodka I had stashed in a cupboard.

Passed out. Woke up at 4:17am according to my alarm clock to find that in my sleep I had rolled on to my back and vomited, pretty much vertically, most of the contents of my stomach including, as I'm sure you have guessed, the cheeseburger.

This had resulted in my hair being plastered to my pillow, and once I had extracted myself you could see a rather amusing outline of my head and shoulders, with a halo effect of cheese coloured vomit, on my bed and up the wall.

I cleaned up as much as I could without waking my Nan (whom I was staying with at the time) and wrapped myself up in the least sodden bit of my duvet and slept on floor for the rest of the night.

On my way home from work, had been on a bit of a binge in the evening (one of our party went for a walk up the northern line, and I mean that literally - it was one of those nights) Got to Charing Cross station, grabbed some chips from BK, for I was that non-fussy, gave all my money to a beggar, for I was in that kind of mood, and got on a train home. I know we're told never to stick our heads out of moving train windows, but when needs must (and the god of chunder demands worship) a boozer's gotta do what a boozer's gotta do. The hint as to how mashed I was comes when my taxi pulls up outside my house, I realise I've given all my money away, and when I prove to be incapable of saying the word "cashpoint" the driver turfs me out and pisses off. Hurrah!